The Ties That Bind
by Suga Bee
Summary: Everything up until now was preparing for this moment, and for whatever reason, Ivan couldn't believe he didn't see this coming.  Alfred was right, people were made of strings, and they were snapping one at a time. Rating will rise with chapters.
1. We're made of string

**More Ivan and Alfred, this time in college. :) Its going to be a dark fluff trial, so try to bear with me.:)**

**Hope you guys enjoy!**

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><p>It was a cold Tuesday, and almost like clockwork, there was a soft rap on my window, and the feint scratch of converse shoes on brick wall. I didn't need to look at my clock to know it was 10:01, nor did I need to move the curtains back to inquire who was there.<p>

The window opened with a slight creak, followed by the ruffling sound of brown paper bags and shake of ice against Styrofoam. And Alfred's voice coming out light and hearty as he pulled himself up into my room effortlessly.

"Hey," he gave a loose salute and million dollar smile, offering one of the Mc Donald's bags to me, though I declined like I always did. He gave a shrug, something I loved to see because it always flexed the muscles in his shoulders and back as he walked past me, slurping on one of the Cokes.

I knew he would sit in the bean bag chair, take the IPOD head phones out of his ears and take out his 'Usual', two Big Macs no pickles, three large fries, one apple pie and a chicken nuggets. And though he always bought dinner for me, and I always refused, he still managed to devour the entire meal.

We sat in silence after I had gotten comfortable on my bed, arms crossed under my chin as I watched him eat and I contemplated about the person who was Alfred F. Jones.

You see, I had moved here when I was real young, and even though I never talked to other children at school, I managed to catch the attention of Alfred, who, for as long as I can remember has been throwing rocks at my window, or climbing up the tree to knock on the glass.

Never has he seen the rest of my house, never has he come through the front door.

And the same every time. He'd bring food for the both of us. Never would I touch a bite but he'd still smile and stop his music, asking between bites about my day, dropping a few hints of his own, and then sitting in a blissful silence as he watched me study.

But I never studied. Instead I'd stare at the pages and wonder more about Alfred F. Jones, stealing glances at him when he'd yawn or rest his head lightly on the desk as if to sleep a little before he left.

I liked the time we spent together. It was peaceful. It was nice. He never pressed about anything, never raised his voice, never argued anything even if a debate flaunted itself.

I knew he came here for peace and quite, because his father was a loud drunk whose hands wanted Alfred in line at all times. Behind those blue eyes I saw tears buried, and every once in a while a bruise was blooming on his cheek, or his lip was split, or red finger prints could be seen as vicious grab marks laced around his arm, but he never said a word about them. It was almost like he wasn't even aware of them.

Instead, he'd just eat and nap, and ask me how I was, or what I was up to, always so polite and shining, bright as mid noon as he lounged around.

Tonight a dark circle was ringed around his eye, almost like a raccoon's as he took a greedy bite of hamburger, legs kicked up and crossed as he flittered his eyes from the open window, my door and then to me.

"So I saw you got accepted to Brightvale Academy. Congrats." Though his tone meant to be pleasing and frothy as always, there was an utter twang of regret and maybe even...jealously?

"Ya, they sent my letter this- Wait! How did you know?"

"I read your mail." the way the truth rolled off his tongue was sinful. Almost like saying an obvious fact.

"You looked through my mail? That's illegal!"

"I couldn't wait. I...I was excited to see you get in. After the mailman dropped it off, I just had to look." His eyes didn't meet mine this time, because he knew I was glaring at him repremendingly. But I couldn't stay mad with this face looking so down cast.

"Well, so you know. I got accepted."

"You don't sound happy."

I stiffened a little at his observation. Though he didn't really seem happy about my acceptance either. I felt like I shouldn't feel great about it, even though this was the school I had been following since 9th grade, the school who drove me to abandon outside socialization so my grades would be sky rocket high.

"Are you mad?" The words fell like awkward broken shapes from my mouth, my eyes narrowed in distaste as he licked the salt from his fingers and drank up more soda with a loud slurp.

"Why should I? You just got into one of the highest ranked schools with a whole entourage of scholarships to pay your way through. You get to be a bazillion miles away from this hell hole, you get to go off and study your micro whatevers and the semi circulation thingies," his words were losing strength as his voice grew almost spiteful. Alfred sounded _absolutely hateful_.

His hand swirled the cup of ice as he drew a huffed breath, "You'll be in a great dorm with loads of cool geeks who will help you with homework and actually understand all that stuff, and eat salads with little croutons like rich people have and you'll meet some girl who has pretty eyes and she might not be _hot,_ but her brains and glasses cover that up. You'll ask her on a date and she'll blush and of course say yes. Y'all might grab some coffee. Then it turns into dinner. Hand holding turns into kissing, and soon you have her pinned to a bed, and between pants you'll wonder how you got there. The next day she doesn't talk to you, but after you graduate, you guys meet up again and for whatever reason try _whatever that was_ again. You'll marry her, and have a few kids, and trade in your Mustang for a van and your diploma will collect dust in a back room on the wall that you painted an ugly color because your wife wanted it, and you just can't say no to her. And...and..." his chest was heaving, pulse rapid as he laid his forehead in his palm, his knees coming up to his chest as if he was going to collapse in on himself.

"Alfred, please stop, you're giving me a headache. Besides, none of that is going to happen-"

"YES! Ivan yes it will! And you won't remember this town and won't ever come back even though you said you would,"

"Fredka, you're acting like a child. Stop this." I had raised my voice to overpower his, but the baritone made him shy away, fingers tips shaking around his cup as he set it down. "Alfred, look at me. What's wrong? This can't be about the college."

A pause faded in as he thought. I noticed the breeze was blowing in from my windows, carrying the trickling yells of Alfred's father as he smashed a vase. Alfred's eyes closed as he turned from me, the bean bag chair sagging against his weight as he moved.

"Are you...jealous? That I was accepted?" He shook his head quickly, as if I was an idiot to think so.

"Are you sad that you haven't been accepted to any schools?" Again, he shook his head, uncaringly this time.

"Are you afraid that...that I'll forget about you?" Alfred made no move, almost frozen as I uttered the words, barely swallowing as the silence lingered on. "Are you going to miss me?"

His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed again, and for whatever reason, my heart excited at the small movement of him. Alfred finally unburied his face from his hands, and nodded his heavy head, the bruise on his eye looking so pitiful and like a crescent moon that I wondered if his father had perfected beatings after all these years.

Finally he spoke, as a few rogue tears broke ranks and formed heated, wet lines down his cheeks. "I always thought you were cool because when you spoke, you sounded like he were trying to swallow your consonants, and you're R's were like ruffled fur. I knew you wouldn't judge or talk or say a word, so after my father locked me out I stood underneath your window, and at first I didn't think that you'd ever let me in, but for whatever reason, after I threw the first rock, you opened your window and beckoned me inside."

He wouldn't look in my direction as he continued, the cowlick on his head being brushed down as he ran those pianists fingers through his hair. "You never did ask about my scars and you never told your parents about me, and I liked how you thoughtfully asked if I wanted to sleep over, and when you read biology books it makes me feel like you're climbing mountains, growing so far away from me. And I like it even better that no matter how crappy my day is, or how hateful the things are my dad says, I can always climb up the banister and I'm safe. You don't yell, or get angry, and for whatever reason, I hate that you get to leave and you won't want to open your window to me, because at this point, I wouldn't open the window for me." His sobs grew intermingled with his words until he was almost gasping them out, and holding them back. "We're friends and we're strangers, and sometimes I think, Alfred, this is it, pack your bags and head out, ask the Grim Reaper how many days till your sentence is up, but I only make it to your mailbox, and my eyes look up and see the light on in your room, and my fingers find a stone and suddenly I'm here again and I feel like I'm absolutely _on top of the world, Ivan_. Life drags me through the dirt and then sends me your way and _I'm sorry_ for that."

I wanted to interject but my chest was constricting, feeling tight as he kept rambling, tears laid so plainly, like film across the azure orbs. His lips were chapped and the silvering ghost of a scar broken between them and I suddenly wanted to kiss him, absolutely bend him backwards and kiss the life back into Alfred. The sun and light that was Alfred F. Jones was fading against the world.

His eyes finally locked on mine, looking saddened and heavy, almost dead tired and grieving.

That's when I broke.

I shifted my weight off my bed and came to him in one swift movement, enclosing my arms around him as he finally started to cry for real. I almost felt like he could shake the walls by weeping this hard, but I didn't question it. If I had to guess, Alfred was letting out every emotion he'd ever felt, ever.

**-WW-**

For the first time in 13 years, Alfred was sleeping in my bed, laying curled across from me, the rise and fall of his chest soft and lithe, his hair a bit disheveled as it fell in front of his face. My fingers wiped his bangs out of his eyes and I kissed him on the forehead again for the eighth time.

I couldn't help it.

I was alive with the words he had said and the thoughts he had spilled out to me and all I could think of was how I hated when he looked so small. My mind kept gnawing at everything, about me going off to college, about him missing me, about everything that had started with one rock, a window and two five year olds. I closed my eyes for a bit and kept replaying the words in my brain, his voice still in my ear.

I felt him move and I looked over at him, his eyes half mast and smile barely sketched against his face. A yawn escaped him and I kissed him again on the forehead, but this time his hands moved my lips to be on his.

I guess he was tired of me kissing his brain.

"Ivan." His voice was like a spark in the night.

"Ya?" I answered, patiently waiting for him to ask anything of me. At this point, I'd do it, anything for Alfred.

"Nothing, I just wanted to say your name. I wanted to make sure you were really here."

I didn't correct him that technically _he_ was _here_, but I left it unsaid, instead, kissing him once again.

"Ivan?"

"I'm still here."

But he didn't seem to even hear me as he continued. "What makes people hate each other?"

I shrugged my shoulders, though I knew he couldn't see me. "I dunno. Maybe they just get fed up with others. Everyone has bad days."

There was a pregnant stillness, and I was worrying about what he was concerned with so late.

"You know what I think?" Alfred asked childishly, so lovely and sweet that I had to pull him closer, so he could whisper in my ear and I could feel the weight of his words as they left his lips.

"What do you think Fredka?"

"I think people have these little strings in them, and when they lose control or something terrible happens, they have to cut a string. And someday, all their strings are cut and they can't keep going on." Even though Alfred's voice was low and curious, it sent shivers through my soul. If that was how things worked, how many strings did I have left?

How many stings had Alfred cut?

"That biologically isn't correct," I laughed a bit, trying to lift the smothering weight that was falling on us with the subject, "People do not have stings like that."

"Oh."

That was all he said, and I guess he had fallen asleep because with that, he didn't say another word the entire night.

It wasn't until morning that I noticed that Alfred was wiser beyond his years, and maybe biologists had been wrong, and maybe people did have tiny stings inside of them, because the next day, I watched as someone's strings broke all at once.

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><p><strong>Review and tell me what you think, if you liked it and if there needs to be anything clerified. :) <strong>

**With lots of love, I go off to finish chapters for my other RusAme sotries! (If you want to see some Preggo!America, read my other story "We Were There Once"!)**

**If you have a fave couple, then tell me and I'll write a fic, tell me tell me tell me! **

**Love ya'll, **

**Suga Bee**


	2. They all broke

**I love you guys! To everytone who commented, thank you so much for showing aprreciation to this story. I have great plans for it, so here you go.:)**

**And no, it won't be all dark and agnsty, but so far it is, so be careful. haha.**

**Hope you like this chapter, and read and review so I can see what you guys like, hate and what I can do better. I just want to write good fics so I can please you guys!**

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><p>I was stumbling down hallways that were cramped and seemed to be bleeding from cracks in the ceiling, the droplets of blood hot and stingy as they sizzled on the floor and seared my skin as I fell into an open doorway, the shrieking of a derailed freight train dying to absolute silence as the door slammed shut and I was doused in darkness.<p>

Words were being spoken, but I felt like I had cotton in my ears as the muffled words rose and fell in understanding, the speaker far away from me it seemed. I was on my hands and knees, head hanging in defeat as I tried to stay still, the shadowy fingers and steely screams of pain swelled up around me, then disappeared. There was a rumble, as if there was oncoming train actually blustering through the outside hallway, and my ears picked up the lone sound of a wine glass tipped off the edge of a table, silence pooling in as it seemed like forever before it shattered on the ground. Each piece resonated a different high pitched frequency as it hit the ground, thousands of shards splitting apart and scattering.

Where was I? What were these hot movement sliding against me, as if millions of fingers were handling me, turning me around, carnival ride dizzy now as one caught me by the throat and squeezed mercilessly. I felt my weight lift from my aching knees and I was being raise up by this tight grip.

The blockage in my ears was slowly clearing as the words being whispered around me grew louder and stronger.

It was Alfred who was speaking, over and over, as if reciting something, as if mindlessly repeating.

_"We live in paper towns as we are held together by strings. Strings in the people and under the streets, strings to pull and strings to blind, strings that break and strings that bind...We live in paper towns as he are held together by stings-"_

My ears burned and I tried to cover my ears from hearing the words but I couldn't get my arms to move. They were numb weights at my side as the hand's nails twisted deep into my skin.

"Alfred," I barely choked out as the hand's grip dangerously tightened, my ears becoming even more clear to the surrounding sounds. More glass was breaking, as if a whole set of glass wear was ripped from a table, another train shook the walls as it roared by, and Alfred's sweet voice kept spitting out those dreadful words in a twisted sort of poetic rhyme, and as I closed my eyes, I could almost see the curve of his lips as they slowly pronounced each word, methodically, exotically, cautiously.

I wanted to yell STOP but my lungs seemed to burning and choking on smoke, though there was nothing but the darkness and the sounds around me.

My brain was spinning, and there were more hands all over my body, groping and grabbing, hot and sticky, and I was disgusted how sensitive I was as I felt the blood in my stomach pool even lower, a hot trickling feeling enveloping me as I felt myself give into the hands.

'No, no, stop this. Please, God, please stop.'

I didn't know where I was, or if I was dying, my body felt alien to me as I reacted to the touches and to Alfred's swooning voice, and the images behind my eyes were of a child Alfred coming in through my window, falling in a heap of jacket and glasses askew, another of preteen Alfred blaring some rap song with terribly lustfully lyrics and the way his hips moved just right to the beat, and teenage Alfred who brought me the same Mc Donald's with a new story behind a fresh scar, and at last, crying sobbing Alfred with his salty, feathery kisses and his idea of stingy people. The more I tried to stop the memories, the more vivid they became, his skin even softer, his lips moist and plump, his hair like rays of wheat and honey, eyes like rushing babbling brook.

My body was writing as the hands all gather at one part of my body, stroking me through my jeans, and even though their touches were soft and barely there, my body was driven crazy and I instinctually tried to arch toward those greedy fingers.

_" Strings to pull and strings to blind, strings that break and strings that bind."_

I was close to tears as the fingers brought me to the cusp of climax, and suddenly stopped, and the hand around my neck let me loose, and I broke through the floor and suddenly sat straight up, opening my eyes.

I was in my room.

The noise was gone.

Not a whisper or word.

No train on rattling tracks.

No hand grasped around my neck.

My fingers came up and felt the collar of my shirt and brushed the soft skin, wincing as I felt...

Nothing.

I was fine.

Except for the straining hard on that was draining me of blood it seemed.

I groaned, doubling over, and noticed that my bed was empty, and I couldn't help but think about how Alfred had somehow untangled himself from me last night and left.

I twitched in my hand as I gripped my member, just as close to coming as I had been in the dream, and with a few light tugs and a gasp and soft, whimpering moan I felt my release like a blinding, starry light.

Never had I been that aroused.

All by simple hands in the darkness and Alfred's voice.

I kept replaying the tape in my head, as to never forget it, because this meant something. And what was that that Alfred had said?

**-WW-**

"We live in paper towns as we are held together by strings. Strings in the people and under the streets, strings to pull and strings to blind, strings that break and strings that bind."

"What was that Ivan?" I glanced up from pushing my breakfast around on my plate to my sister, Katka, who was leaning over the chair in worry, her eyes so round and caring that I hated to lie.

"Nothing, just a thought." I picked up a piece of toast and took a hearty bite to convince her that I was fine and smiled as she was overcome with joy.

"OH! I'm so happy about your acceptance letter. I wrote to Mama back home and when Papa gets back, I'll let you tell him..." her voice became distant as I remembered the whole reason why Alfred had come over last night.

Would I go?

Would I stay?

My whole family had paid my sisters and I to come over to the United States, so we could get a better education. Katka was already finished with her schooling, working as a nurse at hospitals during the nights, and Natalia, my younger sister was starting high school this coming year, her path to become detective. Katka always said that "it's a waste for such a pretty face to go into such a gruesome profession." But Natalia had shrugged and went about her way.

I had to take this opportunity, it was for the best.

But why did I feel like I was cutting a string as I convinced myself?

**-WW-**

I was engrossed with a good novel about biochemical warfare, Ebola being spread quickly through a quarantined hospital when I heard the stark, crying sirens of an ambulance followed by the nagging of police vehicles on its heels.

Had I not dreamed of noises and death, maybe I wouldn't have gone to my window to ponder what was the matter, but with curiosity sitting on a razor's edge, I threw open my window and ripped back the shutters, the same line echoing in my head as I prayed.

Please, don't let it be Alfred's house, please please_ please_, not Alfred's house.

But just as it looked like the cars would whizz right by, they all came o a screeching halt, and I could see my sister step out onto the porch, drying her hands on her apron as she watched the police jump from their seats and rush toward Alfred's front door.

'No. No, it can't be.'

I wasted no time in racing down the stairs, and throwing myself out the front door. The yells of orders overcame me, as some man in uniform started to rope off the area with yellow caution tape. I felt like I was in a movie, everything almost fake almost too real t be true.

Katka called for me to come back, but I ignored her and shoulder my way through the mess of strangers who were just letting themselves into Alfred's house, and as I made it past the front door, my eyes made quick work of finding Alfred, who was standing by the Sheriff, an older gentleman I knew as Office Vash, some man who had strict standards around the city and a Swiss accent to his clipped words.

But Alfred didn't seem to be listening to the words Vash was saying, instead, eyes fallen to the floor and comatose like, as if he was a blank slate.

"_Fredka_?" I called, and he seemed to stir somewhere deep in his void, a light kindling behind his golden lashes as he opened his arms and pressed me to him.

His cheeks felt a little wet against the crook of my neck, and I guessed he was crying. My big hands were combing through his hair, and smoothing over his shoulders in an atempt to placate him. My eyes opened to see Vash avoiding our scene, looking instead toward the kitchen whose door seemed to be tilted off its hinges.

"Alfred," I asked, pulling back to kiss at his forehead and his trembling lips. "What happened, what's wrong?"

But he didn't answer me, instead, just swept his eyes over me as if to judge what I would do if he told me the truth, or as if to tell me without saying a word, as if I could read his mind and I would just know.

But I didn't. His thoughts were just as unreadable as last night and the dream had made me wary of everything, his voice echoing again in my hallowed memories.

His hand lifted beside him, pointing toward the kitchen and I turned to face it, stepping cautiously through the sea of officials who were wading about taking down notes, and brushing things for evidence of some kind.

When I got to the door, I noticed Alfred hadn't followed me, leaving me to see it on my own.

There was blood.

Everywhere.

On the ceiling.

On the tiles.

On the _man._

He was faceless, because from the way his lifeless body held the shotgun, it looked as if he had aimed through his mouth, as if to swallow the bullet and gun powder like some invincible hero.

I gagged at the sweltering smell of death and the dark matter that was dripping from the ceiling where everything just splattered, and with a choking convulsion I had to hold back from throwing up all over the crime scene. "Oh God, _what happened_?"

I felt a hand rest on my shoulder and I instantly knew the fingers were Alfred's, and from the look in his eyes, those dead, empty eyes, as he regarded the body, I instantly knew it was his father.

I wasn't sure if I embraced him because I felt sorry for him or if it was to keep me from falling to pieces, but I took him up in my arms and shielded his eyes from the red room and held back my cries of anguish as I felt him whisper into my ear.

"All his strings broke."

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><p><strong>:) Don't ya'll just love endings like that? And the dream...I wonder what it means...<strong>

**Have any ideas you want to share on interpritations? I'll be glad to hear. :) **

**With love and cookies to those who review,**

**Suga Bee. **

**P.S. another chapter is coming shortly! **


	3. I never knew we were so tangled

**Here's another chapter! Whoo! **

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**And of course try to figure out "We Were There Once." lol.**

**Tell me how you like this. Its gonna get better, this transition chapter was alittle weird, sorry. :(**

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><p>It was nearing dusk, with the sun tipping over the horizon , seeming to fall right off the edge of the neighborhood as it disappeared behind the thicket of woods. It was casting orangish rays onto the streets, the air stifling and a little cool, wispy almost as the trees shivered together, whispering about what had happened on the cul-de-sac that afternoon with the crinkle of fall leaves and hearty green ferns.<p>

My hands were wringing themselves around a shoulder strap of an army bag that held a few articles of Al's clothes, the sound of twisting leather soft and a little unnerving as I waited for Alfred. My sister had been nice enough to offer to let him stay with us if he wanted, but for some reason, Alfred had shaken his head, with a pretty, thankful smile on his face. My sister promised he would always have a place in our house if he needed, and went back to her prayers for his father's soul.

Her sweet voice asking God to pardon the dead man was infuriating to Alfred, I could see it as he turned away from her so starkly and put in his head phones.

He looked drenched in sadness when he stood by himself in the group of people who were milling about, all on separate agendas to get things done. There was the sorting of Alfred's new home with his other parent, the deeper investigation of the house, the moving of the body, the cleaning, the report.

For a second, a flittering thought stroked at my brain, dark and deceptive, collected and nipping as my eyes widened at the possibilities.

'Had Alfred _witnessed it_? Or had he simply walked in to see the horrific crime?' I shivered a bit as a gust of wind wrapped itself around me, calling out to Alfred just as a car I've never seen before pulled into the drive way.

A man decked in a fine suit stepped out, a Valentine red tie knotted at his throat, hair pulled classily back into a small ponytail, waves of it falling a little loose as he brushed his bangs from his eyes by pulling his dark sun glasses up.

He searched around a bit, his gaze looking like feint summer skies, so clear and almost watery with emotion. At the sight of Alfred, he picked up pace and ran to him, taking him tightly in his arms and brushing his hands over his hair. I could see his lips muttering something to him, though Alfred just leaned his head on the man's shoulder in a tired, given up way.

I was hesitant on approaching the softening scene, wondering what this man had to do with my Alfred, but one foot came after the other, and as I neared them, the man's voice was coming clear to me.

"Mon Dieu, Alfred, come here baby, are you hurt?" I saw concern in his eyes as he swept a look over Alfred's face, a quick hand pulling at Al's knotted hair and untangling the curls with parental care. "I wasn't sure if you wanted to come live with us, but Mathieu said that he had talked to you over the phone and that you wanted to come home ." Something about his voice reminded me of white lace and sweet wine, his arms again enclosing around Alfred.

Somewhere deep inside me I was jealous that Alfred held so readily to him.

I didn't know who he was, but I wanted him gone, this didn't concern him.

Or did it?  
>"Ivan." Came Alfred's voice like a life raft out at sea. "Ivan, meet my um...meet Francis." There was an awkward pause as Francis looked down to Alfred in contemplation and then to me, holding out a hand to shake.<p>

I took it halfheartedly, eyeing him as he pressed closed lips to Alfred's forehead.

"While Alfred lives with us, you may visit whenever you like, I won't mind. And I bet Mathieu would love to meet such a close friend to Alfred." He was meaning to be polite and caring, but I couldn't get past the fact that this stranger was so familiar with Fredka, so comfortable and loving with him, so easy to take him away from me.

Suddenly, Al reached over to me, fingers tangling in my scarf and pulling me to him, so close still to Francis that I could smell his cologne, something subtle and expensive on his suit.

I wasn't reluctant to hold him, arms crossing behind him and falling to his waist, breathing slow against him as he wiped the beginnings of tears on my shirt. I kissed him readily in front of Francis, hopefully showing that I cared for my Alfred, that I loved him, and I was all he needed.

I heard a laugh like church bells, and turned to see Francis with thick tears filming his eyes as he started to cry into a handkerchief he had pulled from his sleeve like some magician. Alfred chocked a laughable sob out as well, hand clapping him on the back.

"Such the drama king, Papa."

My eyes shot over to Alfred who had just called this man "Papa."

"Oh, baby boy, you don't understand adults," he wiped at his eyes with the cloth, the embroidered rose looking so dainty against his cheek. "But I need to talk to Vash. You wait right here." Francis looked about and finally laid eyes on the hardened officer, waving his attention to him and walking off.

Alfred gave a side lopped try at a smile and answered my confused look an answer without a second glance. "He was married to my dad a long time ago. Francis' sister was my mom, so technically he's my uncle, but since my mom died during child birth, and Francis was already a year and half into an affair with my father, he took me in." There was a shrug on his shoulders, something I was yearning to see, because that meant he was back to his old habits, and things were close to normal, but he didn't shrug. Just took a deep breath...held it for a long, pondering moment...and let it roll out.

"There must be something Freudian about all of it, but I don't mind. Francis is like my mom. He looks like her, and smells like her, like rose water and fine perfume, and clean vanilla sheets. Or at least that's what dad used to say."

Again, I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came. What are you supposed to say at times like this?

"I think it's ok Alfred." My hand cupped one of his budding hips and pulled him closer to me, side by side as if to make a wall as we looked toward the horizon where the sun was still rolling off into space.

I was glad that I could feel him, each time he breathed, each shiver that racked his body as it began to chill, his cheek against my shoulder so I could feel his words on my skin.

"No it's not. It's not ok. There's a man in my house whose bathed in red, and Francis is grieving for a man who never loved him, and I'm moving so many miles away that your window is only going to be a tiny dot against the back drop, like one star in a million. And no matter how much your sister prays or how much Francis cries into his pillows, and no matter how many strings we all have, things are not going to be ok."

I was hoping that there'd be more hot, shimmering tears on his eyes so I might have been able to kiss them away like all t he movie star couples did, but Alfred seemed all cried out, instead, closing his heavy eyes as if to sleep.

I watched the world around us as it was mingling so effortlessly, cars pulling out to check back in at the station, the soft words of Katka coming from Alfred's front porch where she was giving her sincerest condolences to Francis, Vash's harsh tone sounding like gravel as he explained to the paramedics what to do, and of course, the sound of breaking as Alfred shouldered the world with thoughts of strings and suicide. If the world was made of sting, then this was a tangled yarn ball that kept rooling dangerously close the end of the line.

"Ivan?"

"Yes?" "I just wanted to make sure you were still here."

I bent my head to lean on his to show that I was still there with him, like an anchor in these fleeting times. Tears welled up thick and prickly in my throat as I tried to hold back any emotion and pressed my lips to the top of his head, just as Alfred bent to hide in the crook of my neck. Again, I sheltered him from everything that the world had tried to pull out on him.

"Alfred?"

I was caught off guard as I heard the French lilt in Francis' voice, pulling away as if to uncage Al and let him loose.

"Alfred, love, we have to go now." A long arm came out and rested comfortingly on his cheek, thumb brushing at the stray tears. "Tell your friend good bye."

I nodded in recognition at Francis, the lump in my throat keeping me from saying anything more to him, even though I saw utter grief collecting behind his blue eyes like a rushing river behind a glass dam. His only love had killed himself.

Did that cut strings to?

Alfred, who always came off bold and brash, felt so uncharacteristically breakable against me as he caressed me, taking fistfuls of the back of my shirt as he said good bye, almost like he was afraid I'd let go.

He kissed me three times.

Once on my shoulder as he spoke about coming back, and again on my cheek when he talked about me visiting.

And just as he had held me at arm's length to get on last good look at me he pulled me roughly into a deep kiss, startling me as he moved so fervently against me. His hands felt like those from the dream as I kissed him close eyed, barely opening my mouth to feel his soft, sorrowful one beneath mine.

"Remember Ivan..." came his panting voice as he rested his forehead on my shoulder, licking at his lips as if to taste me, and I shivered at the pure passion between us. "We live in a paper town with strung up people. Be careful about what you burn and what you cut."

Again came his riddles, and without a second glance back my way he rushed to the car and slammed the door, cracking my world completely in two as he fled, gone and far away from the silent house, the red room, and the palpable stench of death.

I still didn't know what he meant, but I did know one thing for sure.

Letting Alfred go this time was cutting a string.

And by the time I saw him next, I'd cut four more.

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><p><strong>A little spoiler...<strong>

**Matthew is is the next chapter, so brother love, some more secrtes, and more broken strings. Are yall ready?**

**Tell me what you guys think. Be honest. :)**

**With hugs,**

**Suga Bee**


	4. What is this breaking feeling?

**So I'm glad this story has a good following. :) So very very glad! **

**I know that I said that it wouldn't be all angst, I swear it wont! But this chapter and the next might be really sad, but there is some good loving and what not coming soon. :) I hope you guys like!**

Oh! And the words that are in _italics_ and underlined means they are in the lettr, being read in thoughts. :)

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><p>The mail came six days after he had been gone and I comically, faintheartedly wondered if he had read any of it.<p>

His letter was on top, with chicken scratch cursive on the front, stamps that had sunflowers on them were invalidated with a red postal marking.

I wasted no time in ripping it open as soon as I was in my room, my window left open, just in case he wanted to come back.

The first thing I noticed was that it smelled as if he had sprayed some kind of perfume on the paper, something musky and sweet. With the lightest touch, I held it to my lips and inhaled, eyes closed as I remembered him clear as day. The hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood on end, a pleasurable, fire like lick of passion ebbing up in me softly.

The edges unfolded easily with a delicious crinkle, a plethra of petals from a crushed flower fluttering into my lap as they were unleashed from their bindings. They were of red roses and blue carnations, because blue was my color and red was his.

That's what he always used to say.

The first sentence was typed, but the rest was hand written in that horrific cursive that I always told him I loved. And it wasn't a lie, I did love it, because the letters looked rickety and warmly characteristic of him.

_**"I hate it here."**_

I frowned at the simple words and half heartedly wished he hadn't written at all. I would have rather heard his voice and been able to hold him when he felt so down.

_"The flower petals are from Francis' garden. He said that I was allowed to pick a few for you, but I told him I didn't want them. I ended up stealing the blossoms though, because things are more fun when you're not supposed to do them._

_I lied when he asked if I sent them to you, so if he asks, you have to lie too."_

I couldn't help the smile spreading on my face. This was so like Alfred. He constantly did small, meaningless things, telling me about them later on so I could be his accomplice. One time he moved all the chicken noodle soup cans to the frozen food aisle, or put medium shirts with the XX large shirts, and one time he confided in me that he had picked the mango's from a neighbors tree and drew smiley faces on them, leaving the fruit in small baskets in front of someone else's house. I wasn't sure what drove him to do such things, or why he thought he needed to tell me.

I guess it was his way of tying us together.

I guess it had worked, because like all these others, this was a secret I'd take to my grave.

_"Mattie says it's nice that we're going to try and keep in touch. I know he means well, but the way he slid in "try" sounds like it's not going to work. We're going to keep this up right? You're going to write back, right?_

_Either way, I thought you'd want to know that it's nice here. My house is quite, except when its night time, because Francis thinks we're sleeping, but I'm not, and I can hear him get on his knees and pray really hard, like he used to when Mattie was real sick in the hospital. He says words like, 'Its' all my fault' and 'What am I supposed to do now?' I want to tell him that God doesn't listen very well when it comes to our family, but Mattie says that's rude. _

_Do you think the truth is rude?_

_Francis smiles when it's day light out, and he has lots of friends come over to give their condolences, but its real awkward, because I don't think a lot of them understand, and there's lots of secrets in our family so it's usually just quite, with a few apologies of things. They act like they could have saved dad or something. But I don't think they understand. _

_He __**chose **__death._

_Nothing was going to stop that._

_And Francis says we'll have the funeral __next week, on a Sunday, because Francis says Sunday's are holy days and they were days that Dad never drank, but it's not fair because he didn't know Dad for as long as I did because he always drank on Sunday and Saturday, and all the other days like that. He wants him buried in a big oak casket and we went to see it and it's beautiful and carved with dad's English crest. There's red satin lining and Francis also said he wanted rose petals to be laid out._

_That's why I picked all the petals and sent them to you."_

I could picture Alfred shrugging the way he always did, trembling a little as he swallowed sobs back, because Alfred didn't cry anymore.

_"They'll bury him with the rest of the family, right beside Mama, 'where he's supposed to be' as Francis put it. I don't think Francis notices how absolutely sad he looks when he says that. How do you bury your lover by his wife?_

_But I don't want him there. I don't want him in a fancy coffin, I don't want him laying beside Mama forever, I don't want to sit through hours of people lying through their teeth about him._

_Funerals are so pretty compared to death._

_You'll come with me won't you?_

_I got a motor cycle. Just because. Papa said I could ride it to your house and visit, but Mattie's been sick, and if these are his final strings, I don't want to be gone. _

_It's weird, to live like you're dying. Because all I can think about is what to say to him, because those might be the last things I ever say to him and I don't want them to be stupid. The doctors say he'll pull through, but he's real weak and nobody understands him like I do, and whenever I see him I feel like he's withering away or blinking out of existence. He's my twin, so seeing him fade is like seeing myself be taken up by the reaper. Piece by piece."_

I grabbed a swig of water as I let go of the letter, resting my elbows on my knees and holding my aching head in my hands. I didn't want to hear any more about this, about how Alfred was going to lose his brother, and how he had to bury the man who hated him by his loving mother, and for whatever reason I couldn't get the image out of my head that Alfred was loosing pieces of himself and soon he too would be stretched so thin that he'd just disappear in the wind, like ashes through cupped, careful hands.

With a small breath, I picked up the letter again, determined to finish it so I could write him back, so I could tell him I'd attend the service with him, and that I wouldn't go to Brightvale.

_"How are you though? I'm sorry you had to see him. I hate that you know. Does it scare you? Do you have nightmares? Because the night before it happened, I was laying so near to you that I could count your breaths and your eyes were shifting quickly behind the lids. You kept whispering, "No, no." I tried to wake you, but when I touched your shoulder you yelled out._

_I got scared, because you never acted like that before. I left that night because I didn't want to be a burden on you. I didn't want your sister to accidently find us like that." _

I could picture him pausing after that heavy statement, his brain grinding gears as he thought of my picturesque family with their money and love and prayers. Was he ashamed of what we were?

What were we even?

The sudden, heavy slam of the front door and the gruff voice calling out, "I'm home!" rang through the halls, and with a sure hand, I hid the letter, the flower petals and the envelope under my pillow, tucking my covers over that as well.

**-WW-**

As I languidly took my time on the stairs, my ears prickled at Katka's lovingly sweet voice as she welcomed out father home, head bowed in a trained manner, hands reaching out to take his hat and coat, hanging them on the rock that guarded the door. Natalya's heels clicked in a business, clipped way, her arms folding around our father so easily.

She was the baby of the family, and such a daddy's girl.

But my father didn't acknowledge any of this, instead, swiveling is stern glare about the first floor, asking in a cold stone voice, "Where's Ivan?"

"Da, Father?" I answered, clearing down the last few steps as if I had been in a hurry to meet him, evening my breath so I didn't look too much like I had been up to something.

He held his arms out in a gesture for me to embrace him, and without thinking I did so, even though his uniform was crisp with a certain chill you could never warm up to. The ranks pinned to the breast of his shirt were rough on my chest as he patted me with a determined fervor, as if we were long lost comrades reunited after a rather long war.

"Katka says you have good news?" His eyes were like hardened crystals set into his stone like face as he brushed past me, loosening his tie and settling down in the kitchen chair that Natalia had pulled out for him, Katka pouring hot water into his favorite mug of tea.

"I was accepted to Brightvale. And all my scholarships went through, so I won't have to pay much, just a couple hundred for the dorm and whatever extra expenses I have, like a bus pass or things like that."

I saw my sister clasp her hands together with an excited smile, so proud of me as she looked from Father to me, judging just how he would react.

And so like him, his chest was held high as a strong smile carved across his rocky features. "That's my smart boy. If you don't excel in strength, then it must be brains." He took up his tea and held it out as if to toast my success. I tried to form a confident smile, but it just wasn't in me. To be happy to go off to college felt like I would be happy to leave Alfred.

"This will be a great opportunity for you. Get your doctorate, become a big name scientist, protect us from biochemical terrorists. That's my boy." You see, the thing about my father was that ever since he came to America he's submerged himself in the culture, becoming a high ranked Navy captain, fighting for things like liberty, freedom, and justice, just so people wouldn't see the last name "Braginski" and think he was a communist. It was what helped him cope, and I guess if it protected his strings, then it was a good job.

He must have seen through my faux happiness, instead, discovering the inkling of dread and regret.

"Ivan, what's wrong? You're not excited? Not proud to go to such a high ranking school, to become something so amazing?"

"No, it's not that...I'll just-" I left the thought hang in the air, giving a very much like Alfred shrug. I guess it didn't answer dad's question.

"You'll what?"

"Miss my friends. I mean, we are all going our separate ways, so I'll be lonely when I go. I was thinking, maybe if I stayed close to home and went to a local community college-"

"Damn it Ivan, this better not be about that Alfred kid. Is that it? Natalya told me over the phone how he's been coming over and distracting from your studies, and how he went and drove his father crazy, running away and causing trouble until the poor man broke-"

I felt my hands quivering, anger hot and oily inside of my chest as he went on, and the look in Natalia's eyes were that of victory and malice. Her smile was of knives and I swerved my eyes to Katka who was now drawing away from the table, knowing that the tension was about to be broken by ignorance.

"Dad! It wasn't like that! Natalia doesn't know him!" My lips were course and dry like my words, my father finishing his drought of tea before fixating his eyes on me. His aura was strong and palpable as he transformed into the sergeant I knew.

"You're not going to let that fag get in the way of your future and education! Do you understand me? He's no good trouble, from the first time I heard about him!" Poor Katka was shrinking into herself, trying to avoid the entire scene by washing her hands over and over in the sink, her back to us as if we weren't absolutely shaking the walls with our shouts.

"Dad you don't understand!"

"I understand enough! I didn't sacrifice my entire life to provide for you and then you-"

"I'm not doing anything wrong! We haven't done anything wrong!"

"You _**kissed**_ him!"

His last few words echoed through put the distilled house, with the velocity of a poisoned arrow that, when shot from such a close range, my skull felt split open, my blood running viciously cold, heart pained and aching as he belittled me with his icy, disgusted eyes.

I could feel hate slicking my lips as I drew my tongue over them, swallowing the words that I was about to scream. Natalia was moving fox like and calculating as she placed her hands on Father's shoulders, soothing him as she spoke like the grit of sand was in her mouth.

"Don't worry, he is gone. Very far from our precious Ivan. I bet Ivan was just pulled into something by accident, it won't happen again." Her shouldering gaze flashed to me, knowing and intimate, almost as if she could read my thoughts, as if she was about to give everything away if she hadn't already.

Katka shuddered suddenly with tears as she broke down from all this tension, our Father rolling his eyes as he turned away from me, brushing Natalia off with a rude, brusque movement.

I wondered what everyone looked like as my father slammed the front door in his harsh parting, I myself already up stairs, throwing myself onto my bed with a heart wrenching cry.

It hurt that my Father knew. It hurt that Natalia had turned me in. And it hurt even more to think that she was right. Down to the depths of the coldest layer of hell, she was right, and Alfred and I had been a reoccurring accident all those nights that he climbed my window, and maybe Alfred's father's death was an accident, and his leaving was an accident, and look where it got us.

If I thought too long and hard about it, maybe my acceptance to Brightvale was a accident. And even though all those things aren't really accident material, they felt haphazardly pieced together, and so selfish on his part and so ignorant on mine.

There was a soft crinkle under my pillow, and as I gently pulled out the letter, I saw his rugged scribbles and then noticed that my tears were smudging the last few sentences, and with a choked, swallowing composure I wiped at my eyes and finished reading, hoping his words would make me feel better.

And maybe I put too much faith in them, and maybe I was just having a let-me-down-roughly kind of day., but I didn't care.

_"And even though you're headed off to be some mad crazy scientist ten million miles away, I want to say that I'll probably love you for something like...forever. I don't know why. And if you asked, I probably wouldn't be able to say it aloud, but it's true. There's something about you, and something about your strings, and how you're still folding yourself into this paper town. _

_Please don't catch fire with this world. Promise that when everyone throws themselves to the flame to be reborn, you'll refuse. _

_Ivan? Are you still even here?" _

I felt absolutely liberated, as if I was going to fall to pieces or shed my skin or grown wings on my shoulders. My body was shaking as I covered my mouth with a trembling hand, pricks of hot tears biting at my eyes as I tried not to cry.

Was this the feeling of maturing?

The feeling of pining?

Or was this just another string?


	5. Restitching

**HHHMMMMM...**

**So I'm taking a differnt approach to this than I had originally thought.**

**No worries, the next chapter had LOADS of Matthew and Alfred and Ivan, lots of sad and lots of happy and maybe even a twist. **

**This chapter was changed soooo many times, Im not even sure if I like, it, sorry if it sounds rushed, I just wasn't sure how to do it. *bows* I sweat the next one will be soo much better.**

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><p>The second string that broke was when I sent a resignation letter to Brightvale. It was short and punctual, vague enough to skirt around the reason why I was turning down the most prestigious school, yet so detailed that I could pass with shying away from their attention. As I licked the envelope all I could think about was how I was going to tell my father, and then the feeling passed as quick as it came. It felt nice to buck against authority.<p>

With a small smile, I made my way back into the house, only to confront my third string. She was sitting primly on the stool that faced the kitchen, entranced with painting her nails a deep, royal blue that shimmered under lamp light. Each stroke was meticulous and carful, her eyes faded from reality and swimming in some cold thought process as I walked by, suddenly gaining her attention.

"Sister is ironing a suit for you, why?" She was blunt with me, as she always had been since birth, eyes never leaving me as I rounder the bar and began to rummage through the cabinets.

"No reason," came my quipped, at my last straw voice. "It's really none of your concern."

I heard the soft rustle of her dress as she uncrossed her legs, and crossed them again. "My brother's business is always my concern." Natalia then stopped her painting, setting the bottle down with a displeased sigh, turning the heat of her gaze to me.

For a long moment, both of us stared at the other, as if to gauge the strength behind their facade. My sister might have been small and petite but the glare she was giving me chilled my marrow and I had to question on whether or not I could take her. She had been spying on my life, listening at my door with those wolfish ears, telling father about all that I had been doing with poor broken Alfred behind everyone's' back.

Her smile widened gently, looking like a shiny, sliver of an ice sickle against her white cheeks. "Come now, Ivan, why such disdain?" She crossed toward me without fear, unafraid of the powder keg that was packed tightly in my chest, waiting for the right time to light her match.

Her hands came to my cheeks, holding me softly and then gracing through my curls as she leaned up, lips pressing to my skin.

I felt absolutely sick.

I felt like I was freezing.

But something snapped inside of me, something that was weak and something that had been worn thin, that invisible knife not caring that she was blood and family.

Her yelp was pitiable, sharpened and startled after I had slapped her, those dagger of her eyes piercing at me, lips twisted with distaste. She hadn't suspected that I'd stand up against her affection.

"Don't touch me." My voice sounded like my father's, stern and marbled as I looked down at her, for the first time realizing how tall I could stand. "And don't you ever talk to father about me. Do you hear me?"

Natalia was nursing her reddened cheek with the backs of her curled fingers, stance like engraved granite as she stepped away from me, her expression mixing with fear of the unknown and with a sulking for her beaten pride.

"I asked, 'Do you understand me?'" The yell was unyielding, chest pulling in another breath just as she nodded her head slowly and retreated to her room.

There was something about how she looked at me, like she was seeing a different side to me, a dangerous side. I was elated that I had finally stood my ground against her, instead of playing the good bother and letting her have her way. This trickling happiness, this...twang of victory, was _this_ how cutting a string felt?

With a deep sigh and inflated sense of life, I climbed the stairs to Katka's room, rapping twice before I entered.

And there she was.

Standing tall and timid, as she swept the iron over my dress shirt, the white pleats looking like smooth, candied crème.

"Oh! Ivan, I'm sorry, I'm not finished!" She gave a slight, panicked glance back at me, eyes looking like weeping periwinkles as she began to iron a bit faster.

"No, no, Kat don't worry, it's fine. I still have a few days before the funeral. It can wait."

The pause that settled in was long and discomfited, the iron steaming, letting out disgruntled puffs of hot air as she laid it aside and turned the sleeve over. I just sat on her bed, watching her with more detail than usual. I suddenly wondered about how she had grown so, how she was just as beautiful as Natalia, though her figure had more rolling curves, and her hair was clipped short and twisty at the blonding ends.

She was such an adult, and I felt like I had missed when this had happened. One day, she's have a husband and kids, she'd move out of the house and become someone else's entire world. But I'd always love her.

I loved my sister for her smiles and for her warm embraces. I loved her when she woke me from summer naps and offered me chilled tea, I loved her when she knit me sweaters in the winter and always made sure to be there when I accepted an award, playing such a good matriarchal figure while our mother was absent.

But she and I were headed down different paths, almost walking in two separate directions on a map. It was like I had turned around and she was so many miles away.

It was sad to think she was my fourth string.

But as she kissed my cheek, covering Natalia's mark with her plump, warming lips, I swallowed my tears and thanked her when she handed me the suit, finely pressed and ready to be worn.

"You are a good friend for doing this for him. It'll help pull Alfred together."

I began to ponder if one could do that, take hold of the loose, already severed strings and knot them back up.

_Was that even possible? _

**-WW-**

It was approaching midnight, so close to the cusp of another listless day that I was almost alarmed with how many were just passing me by, meaningless and trivial.

The house was quiet and creaking a little as it settled with the winds that blew with the sense of a coming storm. My nightmares were frequently stroking at me with devilishly hot fingers, and every night I'd stay up until my eyes were so deftly heavy and half lidded that I began to mix reality and dreaming, my head lolling back as I breathed in deep and slow through my nose.

I got another good drag of incense as it hung like a dense, ominous veil in my room. I had lit it in the faint hopes that it would keep me up a little longer, keep my senses sharp enough to cut against any on coming dreams.

No luck.

It just made me think of him more.

And the longer I stayed up, the more I thought of Alfred, and the more I thought of how I missed him at my window, and the more I tried to convince myself that maybe we were something.

He had kissed me.

We had stayed up at nights talking about nothing, and I had seen his father as a corpse, and he wrote me letters with stolen petals, so we had to be something, right?

My chest was aching as my sinuses throbbed. I had kept the window open again, more in hopes he might want to climb up my banister than to circulate clean air so I didn't suffocate, but it still wasn't enough for the filigreed smoke.

I ended up snuffing out the dimly glowing tip and laying back down on my bed, legs a little too long for the mattress, my room seeming so miserably empty. It was a Friday, which meant he should be in my room, Mc Donald's bag in his hands, music bubbling from his head phones and a smile on his round cheeks.

But there was only the lingering scent of Dragon's Blood, and clean, night air, and the noise of cicadas and my smothered coughs.

Against my door, the suit Katka had ironed was hanging, swaying ever so often if the wind picked up enough. I unexpectedly dreaded seeing Alfred in two days, because that meant being at the funeral.

I'd only been to one once, when I was still so little that I was clutched to my sister's chest as she tried to keep me from trouble as the family grieved the passing of my father's brother, a man whose picture hung in the living room with many other faceless, nameless relations.

But this funeral would be _different_.

I thought about all the contents of the letter, of the casket, poor, grieving Francis, and the roses, which I kept pressed in my biology text book between the pages about the human heart.

I ached for Alfred was in my room, whether he was sobbing or laughing, or quite or loud, I wanted him here so I could comfort him, or derail his thoughts from their dismal drowning in his father's suicide, and how this paper world was burning, or how we were all cutting strings.

And selfishly, I wanted him beside me, kissing at me and leaning against me, so I could feel him breathing and existing, and so alive that I could finally give a sigh of relief.

The old grandfather clock in the living room chimed two o'clock AM, and I dreamed that Alfred had come into my bedroom with a small smile on his lips, eyes a little highlighted red, and that Mc Donald's bag gripped in his hands.

And never had fast food tasted _so good_.

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><p><strong>Please tell me what you think :)<strong>

**Peace, love, cookies and hugs,**

**Suga Bee **

**P.S. those who comment with ideas mayb be suprised when I use them to the utmost advantage. :) I'm willing to write almost any couple doing anything so just PM me and we'll see what we can do... ;) **


	6. Death at a Funeral

**AICE Cambridge examinations are killing me! I'm so sorry that I haven't udpated any of my stories in so long! There's just so much I have to do for college and school and my life. AHHH! **

**Anyway, TADA! I finally completed this chapter, and feel like pumping out more chaps for my other stories today so I'll be caught up for ya'll. Thank you dear readers for keeping up with me and being so patient. :) I love ya'll! *Hugs and cookies for everyone!***

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><p>I never thought that a room could be so sufferable and quite.<p>

My steps echoed hard, stony foot prints as I marched solemnly up the stairs and into the old cathedral. Its windows were long and masterfully drawn in stained glass, looking prim and brightly spilling kaleidoscopes on the tile as the sun shone through.

I wondered if maybe Alfred had wished it had rained all that day. Just opened up the heavens and let the water wash over the people in their suits or gather in the gargling gutters or drown the flowers that people were laying in the closed casket.

And there he was, standing beside the giant mahogany coffin, dressed in a black suit and blue tie, eyes marshy and thick as he kept his sights trained to the floor until another mourner came up to him, and then, with a languid, dry embrace he'd nod if they asked him if he was alright, or told him they were there for him, and without another word they would part. He looked broken.

Or hanging on by a thread.

It was also hard to miss the young man beside him, wearing an identical outfit, but whose tie was matching the lilac color of his eyes. I guessed this was Mathieu as I approached the two, first paying my respects to Arthur's box and then making my way to the twins.

Little Alfred noticed me first, with his hands coming up to smooth my lapels and then to tighten my tie. Finally he just took my face in his hands and leaned me down to touch my forehead to his, and I half entertained the thought that maybe he was trying to read my mind, or give me his, when he brushed our noses and let go. I noticed Mathieu's hand had been tugging on his shirt tail, signaling that we were being too conspicuous and turned my attention to Alfred's twin.

He was frail in my arms, unlike Alfred who was muscular and strong willed and felt like kissing the sun, Mathieu had an air of hospital scent on him, like rubbing alcohol or cleaning supplies. His cheeks were paled and lightly flushed from crying, the edges of his eyes tired and glistening with tears.

And he looked so much like Alfred, poor Alfred who couldn't cry anymore, that I almost kissed him star crossed. Instead, I sat down in the front row and watched as Francis made his way down the aisle, almost like how a bride might walk up the alter to her awaiting husband. His hair was a mess of silk and golden rays, lips rosy and quivering as he tried his damndest not to cry.

He looked...older? Aged? Something about him simply seemed to crumble from years and years of some silent, violent storm beating itself against the surface until it made a crack, and maybe the crack spread longer, and with a little more force, it was tore deeper, and now, at this pivotal moment, it broke absolutely open and was now spilling into every part of Francis.

Was that what strings are for? To hold ourselves together, like messy, taunt stitches?

Brokenly, Francis finally stood in front of the coffin, his fingers twitching nervously, almost like a young boys as he reaches for his crush's hand, and laid in on the frame, ghosting his touch over the finely carved and polished wood, eyes following the details of the English crest with a keen interest. He bent his lips to the wood, bangs falling in his face to hide his rushed whispers and the birth of low, keening sobs as he recoiled back and fell into the arms of his awaiting boys. Both Alfred and Mathieu were patting his back, and that's when I noticed how alike they all were, with their blonde hair and pale complexions.

Like father, like son, like mother, like uncle. So twisted and so lovely it all seemed, that adoration and marriage had birthed these children, and death took their mother first, splitting their world into a gaping wound until Francis had come in and rubbed balm on the family. And now Arthur was gone, and the frayed edges of their family were loosened and jagged and dear God, how do you fix something that never really was whole anyway?

**-WW-**

A few people spoke at the podium, a man with red crinkled locks and green eyes reciting an old Irish hymn, an Asian businessman who simply talked about their old school days when they had smoked Opium and joined the Navy together and were _so young_, so _far away_. After almost two hours, I was finally aquatinted with Arthur Kirkland, great husband, doting father, grade A alcoholic, Naval Admiral, suave gentleman, cross hatch extraordinaire, WW 1 and 2 fanatic, and gambling pirate.

It was fascinating to hear through the wreathed sobs and choked stories about the man that Alfred had been escaping. I began to wonder, where on earth in this mess of accomplishments had be cut his final string? Other than the drinking, he was the perfect friend it seemed, with his appeal to the finer things in life and his impeccable tastes.

Near the end, Francis stood to speak, saying small, quipped sentences like "he was my sister's greatest love, he will be missed..." and "in everyone's heart there will now be a hole that can't ever be filled." He didn't say anything about how he felt though, never gave good natured stories about their times together.

But I guess there was too much at stake, just like Alfred had said. The family was drenched in secrets, and they had to be careful about what they said. If everyone knew about the scandal, Alfred and Mathieu would be kicked out of the family. Francis would be publicly shamed.

My ears picked up the sound of Alfred beginning to speak, the shuffle of his suit distracting as he moved the microphone closer his lips, and gave a tired sigh, of either of disappointment or sadness, or maybe even something deeper that humanity has never it given a name.

Loneliness?

"My father was a..." I shivered at the brief pause, the endless silence. "...He was a good man. After Mama died, I didn't think that things would ever be the same. But he made sure that the silence was filled and her place was never forgotten. He would pull out her old recipe cards and try to cook them." He gave a gentle, broken laugh. "He was terrible at cooking, but it was nice to smell something familiar in the kitchen, before the smoke alarms went off. And he sat in her chair sometimes and would knit with her needles, even though they looked dwarfed in his rugged hands. He never knew I watched him and listened to the tiny clacks that they made when he fixed his line of pearls, but I loved those quite moments. Because it was almost as if she never left."

Mathieu quietly strode up to stand beside him, an arm around his shoulders as Alfred broke his calm facade and took his face in his hands, a flood of tears in palms. I had never heard him so tearfully mournful, as his shoulders ached and wracked with quite sobs, people in the pews tearing up as well or looking down at their hands to avoid watching a man crumble.

At last, his brother had been able to coax Alfred to finish his speech, his quite loving whispers just moving lips as he kissed his brothers cheek and leaned from his ear.

"But now he's gone too. But that doesn't mean we can't keep finding things that keep him here with us. It's the least we can do for him. I don't know why he'd..." A breath caught itself hard and hot in his throat. "...Kill himself, but that doesn't stop the gaping wound left him. It doesn't change death. I want to say, that if anything we should be thankful we had the time with him that we did."

Before he choke on another sentence, his brother lead him away, so loyally and so swiftly that no one saw the bitter tears that Alfred was reduced too.

After that, the ceremony was quite and heartfelt, as everyone mingled and talked, almost as spreading secrets or gossiping about him, as if he wasn't if the room. I excused myself politely, and went after Alfred, who was sitting on the marble steps of the church out front.

"Where's Mathieu?" I asked softly, sitting beside him without invitation.

"Went back in to talk with the others. He says it looks better if at least one of us can consol his grieving friends and family." His words were bitter with understanding, and anger that he couldn't be strong enough to do the same.

"I was proud of your speech." I placed my hand over his, giving a comforting squeeze even though he recoiled back from me.

"What? All those lies?" Alfred scoffed, turning his head away from me and too the sky, "Francis said that I couldn't just go up there and scorn him for all the bad things he's done, because no one else knows the real man. Or maybe I didn't know him at all, or maybe he was never real," Again, his ideas were coming fluid and fast from his mouth and it was a rush to keep up with him.

"I mean, all of my uncles talk about his past, and all his friends laughed and shared great memories, and the longer it went on, the more I wondered where that man went. I never met hat Arthur. Not once have I ever seen the man they were ever talking about." His quivering lips stopped their shattered sentences and he turned his face to the crook of my neck as he latched to me and cried.

He seemed to be doing that often now a days.

Mathieu came up behind us and gave a noise of disappointment. "Alfred, stop, please, I can't take you crying anymore."

Quickly, I turned around to bite at him, to ask who he was to tell Alfred not to weep and let out his liquid frustrations. Until I saw how red Mathieu's eyes were, and the sorrow in the crease of his worried brow.

I bet as the younger twin, seeing the stronger one so wrecked was terrifying, so deflating, so draining in itself.

But Alfred, stubborn as always, rose his face from my shoulder and looked at Mathieu, taunting him with his tears and his watery eyes. He drew his body from mine, and lent his hand in helping me up, and with a quick, loving movement, kissed me, swift and soft in front of his brother.

"From now on, I'm free to do what I want. He's gone." I was still dazed from his bold show, but I could detect the hate and painful intent in Alfred's voice as he stared down his brother.

But Mathieu didn't move, didn't say a word.

"Stop cutting strings, Alfred, or you'll end up like Father. Now come say good bye to everyone."

Strings. Again I was swimming in the mystery of stings, and I wondered what the twins were saying in their harsh glares at the other, Alfred holding onto my hand, almost as if he'd fall without me, Mathieu turning away from us, and retreating to the quite, softening atmosphere of the church. Without a look back at me, Alfred followed, his fingers feeling cold and ghost like as he let me go.

**-WW-**

Francis was the last to leave, I watched him slide his hand from the casket in a cold, remembering gesture. I wondered what thoughts he was dwelling on, what questions and answers were ringing in his head, or how many strings he was hacking at, in futile attempts to keep him, or lose him, or whatever he was doing to cope with the loss.

I knew he had better things to say about Arthur than the bland, hallmark card fake he had memorized sweetly to say farewell to his sister's husband. To his lover, his Arthur.

"I'm sorry."

The apology left my lips so subtly I wondered if I had said them, or if he had even heard me. But he responded with a slight shrug of his shoulders, the same sign Alfred gave in defeat or when there wasn't any real answer.

"It's not your fault, he's been tottering on this cusp for years. I'm actually surprised he made it far. Wasn't a strong man, was never a trusting man."

I wasn't sure what else to say, but I let my brain lead me to the coffin, standing beside the Frenchman with a friendly intention to let it all out.

"My sister was always so sweet to him. She'd bake when I invited him over. And she'd make him lunch, and busy herself in his dorm room as he studied. He once told me as that he only slept with her because he couldn't have me. That feeling was so strong that he had to just have her. We'd be tethered together forever. But it was a mistake. She had Alfred and Mathieu, and he didn't know how to father. He kept coming to my house sad and recollecting. He didn't want to grow up. He wanted to be a young adult forever. Wanted to drink and party and travel, simply live. What was to say to him? Leave my sister and do what you need to?" He shook his head and ran a dry, shaking hand through the curls.

"She died so young too, so strong and so alone in a hospital bed from some disease that doctors couldn't explain. But He blamed himself for loving her more. He could have visited her, could have let her see her babies a little more. He could have sent her flowers, or busied himself in her room as she was counting down her days. But he didn't, no he couldn't. All Arthur had the courage to do was to tip the bottle and forget. I've hated and loved him, and I've seen him at the top of the world, and now about to be underneath it."

I trembled at his confession. So many times and instances to cut strings and break ties, and yet Francis was still here, and Arthur was gone.

"But you have to promise me something, Ivan." His violet eyes flickered to me, a hand resting on my shoulder as I faced him. "Promise you won't do this to Alfred. Don't you dare let him end up like his father. Don't let love send him into the mires and lead him from brambles. This is a cruel world and I have a feeling that Alfred is close to falling off the edge."

I nodded quickly, acutely, and gave him a strong embrace, feeling him tear up and let me go so he could leave his lover for good.

And all I could wonder was how on earth I had fallen so deep into this twisted, knotted life.

* * *

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